Greatest
by Cloaked Eagle
Summary: Something a little bit different from my normal style. In which two renowned minstrels debate who is superior.


Greatest

Something a little bit different from my normal style. In which two renowned minstrels debate who is superior.

Disclaimer: None of the characters are mine, and nor are their histories. The current events, however...

* * *

"I'm sorry, but the flute is _far_ superior in both tone and volume." 

"Provided you _like_ listening to squeaks, yes. When was the last time you heard a harp emit such a dreadful yowl?"

"Most of the time, when anyone but yourself tunes it. And there's another thing – you have to keep tuning and retuning that thing."

"As opposed to making it out of _metal_, I suppose?"

"There is nothing wrong with metal provided it is used to the right purpose."

"Like making fancy-dancy instruments for pathetic lovesick Sindar?"

Daeron glared at Maglor. "We are staying _away_ from that subject, Silmaril-luster."

Maglor rolled his eyes. It was true, they _had_ agreed to stick to less provocative subjects, to avoid a repetition of the argument in which the debate over which was more worth singing about losing, a Silmaril or Luthien, had come to blows. "All right, then," he said, "but you can't _sing_ with a flute, and singing is half the value of music."

"And you can hardly dance with a harp, can you?" replied Daeron haughtily. "What good is song if you simply sit there with it?"

"Well, among those of us with _taste_," Maglor responded in his most patronising tones, "we have this ability to appreciate music for _itself_, not as some sort of show."

"Ah, excuse me," said a nervous voice from the other side of their clearing, "but I do believe Master Daeron has the right of it."

Both musicians turned on the spot and stared at the elf, shorter than either of them,standing by the nearby trees. Daeron found his voice first. "Who in Arda are you?"

Maglor raised an eyebrow. "You mean he's _not_ one of your Doriathrin sycophants?"

"One," Daeron responded, whirling to face the Noldo, "I did not have 'sycophants', unlike certain _other_ elves I could mention. Two, I've never seen him before in my life."

"Well, you can understand my mistake," Maglor said lazily, not rising to the bait. "Who _else_ would say you were right?"

"Er, I am still here, you know," said the newcomer. The pair glanced back at him.

"He's got us there," Daeron said.

"Undeniable," Maglor agreed. "Maybe we should ask him who he is."

"Might shortcut the conversation a bit, true," said Daeron, nodding. The two turned back to the other elf.

"So," Maglor asked, "who are you and why do you have such an abysmal taste in music?"

"Hey!" exclaimed Daeron before the other could reply. "Don't mind him," he added to the newcomer, "he's just an ignorant Deep Elf. But who _are_ you?"

"I'm Tinfang Gelion," said theshort elf, "and I'm a flautist, like you, Master Daeron."

"You are nothing like me, Gelion," Daeron replied with a touch of pride. "I am the greatest musician in the world."

"_Second_ greatest," muttered Maglor, "but you have a point. Little one, much as I hate admitting it, your skills are nothing compared to the Sinda's."

"Not that I wish to disagree with so mighty a personage," Gelion said with no detectable sarcasm, "but I _am_ named alongside the two of you as one of the greatest."

"Oh, come now, that's patently ridiculous," Daeron snorted. "How could a Dark-Elf like you be as good as us?"

"_You_ managed," said Maglor nastily, and then grinned as Daeron span to face him.

"We are _not_ Dark Elves!" he exclaimed hotly. "We had Queen Melian and King Thingol and-"

"Yes, yes, you've said that twelve hundred times," Maglor interrupted. "The fact remains that you have never seen the Treeslight, and are thus Dark."

"We didn't _need_ them," Daeron retorted. "The Queen was light enough. _But_," he went on before Maglor could interject, "I still don't think that one of the Avari could even come close to matching us."

"Are you sure he's an Unwilling, though?" asked Maglor thoughtfully. "He does speak decent Sindarin, even if he's a bit hesitant about it. Maybe he's one of your Turned friends?"

"Him? Nandorin? No chance. With that hair, he'd never blend in."

"In some places he might," said Maglor reasonably. "He would around Telperion, except, oh yes, you've never _seen_ Telperion, so you wouldn't know."

"I'm a-" Tinfang began, but Daeron waved him into silence.

"Hush, Gelion, the grown-ups are talking. Hey, there's a thing," he interrupted himself, noticing something. "Isn't Gelion a river?"

"Good point," Maglor agreed. "It started from my Gap, actually, and ran down all the way through Beleriand. Of course, you've got your tense wrong – it _was_ a river."

"Well," Daeron said, "doesn't that imply that he's one of _your_ people? I mean, he's named after _your_ river."

"It only _started_ at the Gap," explained Maglor testily. "It ran all the way down past Ossiriand. So he could _easily_ be a Green Elf."

"I still say the hair makes it _highly_ unlikely."

_Well, you could always _ask_ me_, thought Tinfang Gelion. He hadn't expected much from these two, what with all the stories about them both wandering off to mope, but he'd at least hoped for professional courtesy. Apparently, though, he wasn't going to get it.

"Look, unlike some of us, _I_ didn't have a magic queen keeping all the nasty evil orcs from harming her poor innocent subjects."

Tinfang sighed. He'd lost the thread of the argument after only a few seconds introspection. It hardly seemed possible. "Er, my lords?"

_That_ shut them up, at least for a moment. "Lords? Where?" asked Daeron warily.

"I think he means us," Maglor replied. "Although I don't know that we're _his_ at all."

"Probably just a meaningless honorific," Daeron muttered, and then nodded to Tinfang. "You wanted something, Master Gelion?"

"Um. Yes." Tinfang looked apologetic in advance. "I'm only visiting these parts, but I did want to meet you, so I volunteered to bring you the message."

Maglor blinked. "What message?"

"It's from Lady Galadriel, sir," Tinfang replied. "She says that you're perfectly welcome to stay in Lothlórien, both of you, but she really would rather you moved away from her Mirror."

Daeron frowned. "Maglor, you didn't say this was _Galadriel's_ forest."

"Didn't I?" asked the Fëanorion. "It must have slipped my mind."

* * *

The Cast: 

Maglor: Second son of Fëanor, and a renowned musician. Known, I believe, for playing the harp. Cast the last Silmaril into the ocean and spent the rest of history wandering the world mourning his loss.

Daeron: Minstrel of Doriath. Loved Luthien, betrayed her twice, and eventually gave up and wandered off while out looking for her. According to the note in HoME IV, spent the rest of his days - ie forever - writing songs in memory of her.

Tinfang Gelion: Originally Tinfang Warble, appears in the Book of Lost Tales as an elf who plays the flute under the moon. Recieves no mention after the BoLT is abandoned, except when the greatest musicians are named, when he is placed alongside Maglor and Daeron.

Galadriel: Lady of Lórien, who spent a lot of time in Doriath before its fall. So yes, Daeron _did_ know her, and was very likely intimidated by her.

I'm afraid I ran out of ideas when it came to the end of this story (actually, at 'he could easily be a Green Elf'), which is why the ending is rather pathetic. Hopefully you won't mind too much.

Cloaked Eagle


End file.
